


Man In The Water

by Drake, Olorisstra



Series: The Old Guard fics the TOG Discord enables me to write [3]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Booker is better off without screaming insanity in his dreams because who wouldn't be, Canon Temporary Character Death, Dismemberment, Drowning, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual lots of comfort, F/M, Hanging, Hurt/Comfort, I blame Nicky, I might have ended up giving him an accidental religious crisis tho, M/M, Nicolo' is the one in the Iron Maiden, if you think this is not Yusuf/Nicky centric you've got another thing coming, immortal on immortal violence, mentions only of cannibalism being a thing that can happen but doesn't in this story
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25769410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Drake/pseuds/Drake, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Olorisstra/pseuds/Olorisstra
Summary: Of all the people he dreams about, the one that haunts Sebastien the most is the one he calls The Man In The Water.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Sebastien Le Livre/Jehanne Le Livre
Series: The Old Guard fics the TOG Discord enables me to write [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856608
Comments: 207
Kudos: 453





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This would not have happened without Drake and Ghrelt (go read their stories!!!) and the whole TOG Discord's encouragement and cheerleading.
> 
> You are all amazing and I don't know where I would be without you all.
> 
> Art by the incredibly talented and always lovely [Anna Rodman!](https://arodmanillustration.com/)

There are four of them.

He sees fragments for the most part, as he sleeps and dies in the snow and tries and fails to orient himself in the dark winter night, his belly filled with crow meat and the gush of warm blood now turned frozen on his lips, of the others.

The Leader has long hair, braided back, and she lives quietly furious and constantly restless, haunted by the failure and the Scout's reaction to it. The Warrior is more patient, dark eyes and a warm heart surrounded by miles of dangerous pitfalls and traps, her soul well protected.

Someone else, someone not in his head with them, would probably be haunted by the Scout, worn down thin as the man is by his endless, fruitless search, hounded by his own desperation and driving need for a discovery that never comes, the sands of time slipping through his fingers relentlessly. His guilt shadows and guides every single one of his movements and his yearning makes Sebastien ache so much he has to repress the urge to vomit what little he managed to eat just from the distress of it.

It is a yearning too big to be lived through, where every new breath is another one wasted as long as it does not bring a solution with it and  _ it never does _ . He lives in the water, searching and searching and searching and never finding, why cannot he find what he's looking for, why is it always the wrong wood, the wrong container, useless, useless,  _ useless _ .

It would be reasonable to think that the Scout should be the one haunting him the most. 

He is not.

Of all the people he dreams about, the one that haunts Sebastien the most is the one he calls The Man In The Water.

Sebastien is alone, a hanged deserter who cannot seem to die, forsaken by God and though not quite an eater of fellow men, he is only saved by it from the crow meat now filling his belly.

Yet, he is not as alone as the Man In The Water, nor as abandoned by all.

The Man In The Water is forever drowning, slowly and steadily and inexorably, over and over and over again. There is no end to his dying, no escape from his situation that Sebastien can see, no respite coming for him in the cold, eternal darkness that entraps the man.

He is encased in metal, looking out of two large holes to a blurry view of what must be a sunken ship, with two skeletons trapped under what once had to have been debris and he cannot move from his prison, cannot swim up to the surface. He is trapped.

He is trapped, yes, but he is neither scared nor confused.

For the Man In The Water, his suffering, that slow passage of time that always ends with burning lungs and an inevitable death, is the price of the wait and the wait is worth being endured for it is just that.

A wait.

Not the end of all things but a pause in an eternal existence.

_ They will come _ , the Man In The Water knows, _ Knows _ as certainly as Sebastien  _ Knows  _ that the snow bites at his skin and day follows night,  _ Knows _ more thoroughly than Sebastien has ever known before. It is not in doubt, it is not something that can be discussed, doubted or argued about.

It just  _ is _ .

If not  _ they _ then  _ He _ will come and then they  _ will _ follow.

_ He  _ **_will_ ** come.

_ He _ will come and the Man In The Water _ will _ know the forgotten taste of air anew, the feel of the summer sun's warmth on his skin as always paling when compared to the warmth of  _ His _ hands, most cherished and beloved.

It is as certain as the pain that comes with every difficult breath Sebastien takes, more absolute than anything he has ever encompassed in his life. 

A pillar of Faith more unshakeable than the foundations of the world itself.

It makes Sebastien believe too, wakes him up gasping, stinging tear tracks already frozen on his cheeks, pulling painfully at his skin and beard. It makes his chest hurt and his mouth tremble, his eyes screwed shut as he tries not to suffocate under the weight of a hope so certain it makes it hard to breathe.

If this is what the touch of the Divine feels like, no wonder they say it could drive mortals into insanity.

It is all very much terrifying but, on the third night since Sebastien escaped the noose, something worse happens.

The Man In The Water  _ looks at him _ and cocks his head to the side, a small, slightly crooked smile pulling his lips up on the left. He looks like he is meeting an old friend for the first time, rather than staring at a man who has been eavesdropping on his feelings, finding succor in the man's certainty that safety will be achieved and a rescue is coming.

That is not the worst thing, though.

The worst thing is.

The Man In The Water sees him, nods in welcome and then  _ talks to him _ .


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sebastien's dreams continue. The Man in the Water begins to teach.

The Man In The Water _talks_ to him.

Shamelessly _loves_ him too, more than Sebastien has ever loved or been loved in his whole life. Calls him by his name, Sebastien, and then shortens it to Seb, with a joke about inappropriate saints that Sebastien completely fails to understand. Consider him a brother, for this is not the carnal lust of a lover nor the soft love of a parent or the blind love of a child. It is a love made of joy and warmth and familiarity across a long distance, a soul recognizing another and finding a brother in arms in it, older warrior to young lost soldier.

It is a pure love, one that shakes Sebastien more intimately than the Faith the Man In The Water has, even.

~

_They will come for you before they come for me._

That is the first thing the Man In The Water tells him. Teaches him, too, showing him how to let it sink into his bones, guiding him into trusting that help is coming and not doubting it at all. 

_The dreams will bring them to you._ He is promised and he can see in them that the endless wait on the water has turned to a return to land, though it is unfamiliar land to Sebastien's eyes. 

The Man In The Water is certain, as sure of that as he is of his own eventual freedom, fondness and happiness at the thought of seeing them again so warm in his voice that Sebastien forgets the chill of winter for that night.

He wants that.

He needs that.

~

Learning how to feel that is not, by far, the last teaching either.

The Man In The Water smiles at Sebastien, in the darkness of his prison, and explains that he can see the world around Sebastien while he sleeps and Sebastien does not. 

The frozen wasteland he is trapped in unfurls around them like an unrolled carpet, in Sebastien's dreams, and the Man In The Water teaches him how to read the tracks in the snow and the lay of the land, how to find the cardinal points without the aid of any instrument, so that Sebastien can guide himself South, towards a warmth that will never compare to that of the brotherly love the Man In The Water fills for him but will still be very much a welcome change for his chilled skin and near frozen lungs.

Sebastien makes sure to indulge in the warmth of the sun for him, to spend a couple of minutes watching the river's water shine in the hole he learned how to make to fish, to savour the meat from the game his new snares captured and to scoot himself closer to the fire than he would have otherwise sat, warming his limbs and watching the sparks dance up in the night.

It is all he can offer and he gives it freely, glimpses of the world that the Man In The Water waits for.

He does it gratefully, because he can and because his saviour offered his knowledge freely and generously, nothing like all the others Sebastien had known before, who had shared it sparingly and at a high cost for Sebastien to obtain it. He is unused to such generosity and he has to pay it back, wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did not.

He is gifted lessons and knowledge and a gentle hand guiding his path, glimpses of a life long in the past, _too_ long in the past _why_ has it been this long the Man In The Water does not doubt but Sebastien can't help but question if maybe what the Scout is searching for is not The Man In The Water anymore.

 _Think that again and I will snap your neck._ The Man In The Water tells him serenely, his composure intact, his Faith unshaken but his calm slashed open by irritation that Sebastien would doubt. _You do not know him like I do._

Even with this trespass, even after the two times Sebastien does get his neck snapped, learning that it will wake him up and hurt like a bitch despite his actual neck being perfectly fine, the Man In The Water still shares fragments of himself, dreams shared between them, views and locations where their lessons can take place. 

_You have not met him, so you do not know_ . Is all the Man In The Water has to say when Sebastien wonders, shrugging a shoulder and giving him a look that makes Sebastien feel pinned, makes him want to squirm while being too scared to do so at the same time. _I forgive you. You will understand when he finds you._

And so he still shares. Gives freely. Hands over information after information, pressed in Sebastien's hands like alms from a saint, to a poor wretch on the side of the road.

 _Life lessons,_ the Man In The Water disagrees, gentle even in this firm denial of Sebastien's certainty as to his holiness, rueful and mortified in equal measure as he seems to irrationally believe that he has somehow misled Sebastien, _from a brother to another. From me to you._

Then, softer, with a little shake of his head. _I am no saint and I doubt anyone would ever call me a martyr, not that they should._ Firmer, something darker slipping into his voice that Sebastien does not recognize, as sand takes over the grass and blood spills over it, dark and encrusted, flies buzzing all around, weapons and armored bodies, difficult to see with the wind blowing sand over them, strewn all around them. _They should not. I knew martyrs and I was not one of them._

Sebastien wakes up, not knowing why.

It is still dark outside and he is confused as to what came over the Man In The water.

Nicolo' di Genoa, he suddenly realises, sucking in a startled breath. The Man's name is Nicolo' di Genoa and he does not believe himself a martyr, much less a saint. He thinks he wouldn't be called one and he is wrong.

Sebastien would.

More than that, he already _does._

~

Nicolo' will never tell Sébastien, will never allow the memories to slip from the chests he has secreted them into and then chained into place in his own head, that for far longer than he likes to think about, he was a head with no body.

He would still be one, he is certain, if not for a combination of factors that he can only see as Yusuf's God taking mercy on the love of Nicolo's life and sparing the man from finding his lover still cut into separate pieces. 

How else, he thinks, can someone explain how quickly the rush job they did on sealing his iron prison into different compartments corrupted into the water, allowing the severed limbs of his body to bob up and close enough to start knitting back together, until he had limbs to move again and lungs that had died filled with one last deep breath, in preparation for that coming pain, that he could use to learn how to stretch his living time further and further?

He knows how blood in the water tastes like, now. He knows how his blood in the water tastes like. It is not a taste that he is particularly fond of, though it is far better than Yusuf's blood would have tasted, spread out in the water and so he is grateful that it is only his own taste that he has become accustomed to.

Yusuf is not here, trapped with him. 

Nicolo' will never stop being grateful that his heart is out there, that his soul does not know what it feels to be a head with no body, to taste so much of your blood in the water that he must have leaked enough to make a few full meals of blood sausages.

If anything would have drove him insane it would have been knowing that Yusuf was out there, suffering and Nicolo' could not alleviate it, could not reach for him, could not free himself and swim up until he breached the surface and from there made his way to the shore and through anyone who might have stood between them but it helped, it kept him sane, to know that Yusuf being out there, even if suffering, meant Yusuf was not down here, where Nicolo' and the skeletons of his captors, picked clean by the fishes, rest in wait.

He had hoped, for a while, that sharks would come, attracted by his blood and attempt to pry his prison open, giving him a starting point to work his way free, once his body started reconnecting, but it seems that, for all it's size, the main breed that lives where Nicolo's ship sunk is not the kind that feeds on humans and they had far too little interest in him to attempt anything.

It's a shame. 

Nicolo' could have handled being chowed on a few times if it meant getting free of the tedium of his endless death cycle. He finds it very humorous, in a deeply bleak, gallows humour kind of way, that death has become tiresome to him over time, an hindrance to his attempts to put a dent in his prison though at the same time a chance for his nails to regrow anew whenever they rip. 

_Oh has my breath run out again? Shame, I thought I had a few more seconds to go. Oh well, I'll try for longer next t--_

He thinks, at some point and mostly as close to idly as his guilty conscience allows him to be nowadays when Yusuf is somewhere out there driven to endless lengths and unwarranted self-punishment by Nicolo''s failures, that it will be quite the novel sensation, the next time he is going to die of a sword injury. 

When the thought occurs to him, he is one of those parts of the cycle where he is too tired to even raise his arms and all he can do is wait a few more deaths for the strength to come back to him, hoard it like he does with his breath. It will be, he thinks as he slips past the burning into his lungs and back into that peaceful moment where he's starting to lose consciousness, quite novel indeed to feel the bite of a blade rather than choking on water.

He looks forward to that too, though by this point he is looking forward to anything and everything as long as it could be something different than looking out at Pietro's skeleton, jumbled together with Armando's. 

The view from his prison is sorely lacking into entertainment, he realizes and then promptly snickers himself to death.

~

To Nicolo’, the endless gallows humor is a coping mechanism, too, all laughter aside, because he truly will go insane if he can't give himself other things to think, to keep himself from becoming mindless with worry over Yusuf, useless to his endeavors to escape. He cannot afford to linger into mindlessness, he has to try and keep on trying for any second he gets himself a shaving of metal closer to Yusuf is a second well spent. He won't just _wait for a rescue,_ would never put the burden of his freedom upon his heart, even if his heart must have seized it and made it his own the instant he found the blood and no Nicolo' waiting for him.

~

Nicolo’ di Genoa might not be recognized as a saint by the Church but he _is_ a martyr, one who ought to have his story told and himself canonized, though Sebastien is sure he won’t let that happen.

Sebastien tells him as much and it makes the man choke on laughter, dying quicker than he has in more time they can both fathom. Sebastien does not regret it, cannot regret having brought mirth to The Man In The Water, to Nicolo’, even if that mirth is an appalled and mischievously delighted kind of amusement.

That he caused it fills Sebastien with more pride than he’s had in years.

All of this also leads to Nicolo’ deciding he needs to teach Sebastien about Love.

~

To Nicolo' di Genoa, Sébastien learns, Love is into the Moor Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib. 

It is a multifaceted, layered, complex set of feelings rather than a single one and it is all centered, rooted, predicated around the existence of that one man. Should that one person be lost, the world would turn meaningless, would become as tasteless and grey as ashes and on those ashes blood would spill until Nicolo’ managed to join the other into a different kind of eternity.

For all that it it is amazing and breathtaking and humbling, it also gives Sébastien screaming nightmares that carry Nicolo’s eyes in them and the grim set of his mouth, the mirthless smile and haunted, hunting look in his tense, ready to snap into action, frame that overcame him just by talking about the possibility.

It is not that Nicolo' has never loved others before or after but whatever affection Nicolo' holds for them, Sébastien very much included much to his own incredulity, it is nothing but a spark to what started as a bonfire and became a forest devouring hellish flame that seems to have consumed the man Nicolo’ was before, burning what Nicolo’ saw as all the worst parts of him out until a new man stepped out of the ashes of a life Sébastien's saviour could never live anymore.

~

Yusuf is the sun around which his existence revolves, the light that brings warmth to his soul, that reminds him there are stars in the sky and a breeze to be felt and he will feel it again. 

They came into this infinite life together. They will leave it together. If Yusuf had died, Nicolo’ would not have woken again beneath the ocean. 

That is an absolute, a dogma upon which Nicolo’ will take no questioning.

~

Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib is the Scout, the one always and forever looking, and it grieves Nicolo', if grief is a word that can be used for the heartbroken frenzy the images seem to send the man into whenever they float by in their shared dreams, to see him hurting in Sébastien's dreams just as much as it heartens him to see him searching. 

Not that Nicolo’ ever doubted the Moor’s dedication but there is something achingly gentle in the way he looks at the images bobbing in the water they are sitting by, hands twitching as if he wants to scoop them up, leaning forward as if wishing to gather them close and kiss them.

Sébastien always looks away, cannot stand to look at his saviour when he is like that, when he worries and pines for someone who has not yet managed to -- and then he stops that thought right there, before Nicolo’ can notice and snap Sébastien’s neck again.

 _He will find you._ Nicolo' always says, soft and warm and certain, his Faith in the man as endless and sure as that of the saints in God, blaspheme as the thought sounds to Sébastien _. He will find you first and then he will find me._

 **_We_ ** _will find you._ Sébastien vows anew and is graced by soft warmth and a deepening of the already bottomless Faith that sustains Nicolo' in its grace, his dreams with The Man In The Water always real and clear in a way that fragments he receives from the Scout, the Leader and the Warrior aren't.

 _You will help him find me and we will meet as well._ Sébastien's saviour acknowledges. _One day._

That he believes and trusts in Sébastien's contribution is not in doubt, was never in doubt since Sébastien first decided on it, a dark night while he sat by the fire and waited to fall asleep, studying the constellations he had only recently learned to name, thanks to Nicolo''s boundless knowledge.

It is also just as much not in doubt to Nicolo’ that Nicolo's Yusuf will find him first, will be the first to approach the iron trap Sébastien's saviour has worked on weakening over however many decades he has spent underwater, will be the one to either crack it open or have it raised from the bottom of the sea, will bring The Man In The Water out of it and back into the world for all of them to be blessed by his presence.

There is no doubt in Nicolo''s heart and so there can be no doubt in Sébastien's that Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib will break Nicolo' di Genoa's enforced exile. There is simply no other possibility, no other way to freedom except if Nicolo' frees himself first instead. 

Even then, though, it will be Yusuf that Nicolo' will first greet out of the four of them.

Nicolo' believes it, has so much Faith in it that it nearly brings Sébastien to his knees just to remember the feeling of it, and so Sébastien believes it too, is helpless not to believe it.

It is much as part of Love as the soft feelings and the scary feelings, protectiveness and trust and joy all mixed together, the separation aching like wounds that will never heal for nothing will bring back all the years lost and all the chances Nicolo’ was denied to see his beloved smile, watch him bite into a pear, grin while holding up fabric to Nicolo’s body and enthusing about the latest fashion, give Nicolo’ dates to eat as Yusuf sketches him, both of them drunk on each other in a way Sébastien has only known with Jehanne in his life.

He owes to his saviour to reunite them before he heads back to Jehanne, to see her and the children again, to spend as many years with her as he can before the lack of aging will force him to let her go and only watch from afar as she spends her remaining years as a widow.

He does not know how he’ll be able to break her heart so thoroughly and irreversibly but he knows that he will have to, so that he won’t hurt her worse because she cannot join him as Nicolo’’s Yusuf did, the chances of her dying and coming back so slim that they are unbelievable, though he knows that he will find a way to stand at her bedside when she goes, no matter what he has to claim and to whom, just in case.

Just in case.

She might, after all. 

He did, didn’t he? And Nicolo’’s Yusuf did too.

She might.

~

Nicolo' found, sometime after his limbs reconnected and he was finally able to do more than just die, that it helped him pass the time and work better on scraping at the metal if he did it by the rhythms of the prayers.

He has no way of knowing when morning is but he thinks God will forgive him, if he happens to go out of order as Nicolo' has no way to measure the passage of time on the surface and no idea of whether it is night or day at any given moment. Might have been a bit disheartening, as it means the ship sank somewhere deeper than he'd have liked, but Nicolo' has never let small things like a lack of light stop him before and he won't let it now.

The Benedictine Order did not have candles when Nicolo’ was a youth learning in his monastery and they were, at the time, expected to memorize everything they were taught until they could recite it by heart and without a second thought. Matins started at midnight and Lauds followed it at three in the morning, lasting as far as they needed it to last, though usually at least until dawn. It was a chant, three antiphons, three psalms and three lessons. There should also be a celebration of the local saints' day, if it is one, but Nicolo' will give himself a pass on that one, as he can't be expected to keep track of, in his situation.

So prayers it is.

First the _Pater Noster_ and _Ave Maria_ while he worked, insofar as you can call his pawing at metal, nigh fruitlessly most of the time, a 'work', waiting for his periods of weakness to follow it with _Matins_ and _Lauds_ then some sleep, insofar as he can make himself sleep while drowning so more of a drowsy period while he holds his breath, skipping _Chapter_ to focus on spiritual thoughts and observations and then _Terce,_ chased by the High Mass and dovetailing into _None.  
_

By then his strength would usually have fully come back and he could work on more metal and more prayers until his hands would refuse to claw anymore and he would focus on _Vespers_ and _Compline._ Sometimes he would reflect on the _Regola_ of the Order, as Saint Benedict had written all of seventy-three chapters for it and that gave him plenty to work with. Anything and everything to keep his mind busy in between one death and the next.

It was all constantly interrupted by death, the burning in his lungs a now familiar warning that his time was soon going to be coming to an end, but at least it gave him some semblance of structure and structure helped him keep his sanity. Nicolo' refused to go insane.

It would render Yusuf in pieces and that he could never allow.

He already wrought too much hurt onto the love of his life, already caused too much pain he would do his best to atone for, to abide himself to be the cause of any further injury.

~

Sébastien's saviour cannot give him new clothes or better winter gear than Sébastien was equipped with but he leads him down the river, towards Constantinople. He guides him through waypoints that he knows by heart and looks delighted when Sébastien’s dreams change from endless dives into the sea to heading back to the mainland.

 _Yusuf has realized_. He whispers, giddy in a way he has never been before and so proud that he cannot help but beam with it, his smile so wide and fulfilled that it hurts to look at, and takes Sébastien the rest of the way to what looks like an abandoned cabin in the woods, one that has not been used in a long time but is still more than well stocked.

To Nicolo', that is a memory of a time before he was The Man In The Water, one of a long winter snowed in, kissing the Love of his life and laying under a thick layer of furs, eating salted fish and slicing meat off cured hams, staying safe and together. For Sébastien it is a glimpse of something near Heaven where he can be warm and safe and shed his rags for warmer clothes that won't fall off of him in ragged pieces.

The implications of Nicolo's soft remembrances, his saviour thankfully never shares intimate details for they are both not for someone not him and his Love to see and not something Sébastien is keen to see or even think about, do not bother Sébastien as they might have even just a month ago. 

Even knowing that it was carnal at times, what ties The Man In The Water to the Scout is sacred and holy and as blissful as it is blessed. Sébastien would never dare to judge their union like he would others.

 _That is not fair to others, we are not the only ones who love each other so._ Nicolo' rebukes him that night, sharing the deck of a ship with Sébastien in their dreams, the fragments of the Warrior and the Leader Sébastien is plagued by reflected in the water around them and Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib's flickering images shimmering in and out of sight at the mast, Nicolo''s eyes drawn to him like a compass to it's North, but his tone is fond more than cross and Sébastien shrugs the protest off.

For someone so knowledgeable and wise, sometimes The Man In The Water can be pretty blind, understandably given how long he's been entombed into darkness and solitude. There is no love Sébastien has ever seen or heard about that is anything like the Love his saviour shares with his Moor, though his love with Jehanne does approximate it. 

There might have been once but in the modern world? No, not at all.

 _Why do I not dream of them as I do of you?_ Sébastien finally thinks to ask on his second day in the cabin, belly full with a stew made with some of the potatoes that grew in the cellar underneath the cabin and decades old dried mushrooms and meat that hadn't molded yet, thanks to the cold and the careful way the food had been stored away. 

He has long since shedded his own ragged and ruined gear in favour of clothes Nicolo’ allowed him to take from his own things, calmly but unyieldingly steering him away from anything that had belonged to the other.

 _I have had nothing but time to practice, in the hope that one day someone would come along who I hadn't met yet._ Nicolo' admits, ruefully, spreading his arms a little and giving Sébastien a self-conscious smile. _We can only see each other in dreams until we meet each other in person._

Sébastien smiles. He welcomes Nicolo''s presence, for the martyr might be terrifying to behold and feel but he is also Sébastien's company and saviour, a comfort in this dark winter.

 _Good._ He says. _I want to go back to dreaming of my Jehanne at some point and none of you are invited along._

Nicolo' laughs, warm and full of heart, flickers away into a disjointed feeling of water rushing in and pressing Sébastien down and then he starts dying and they are on the ship's deck once more.

 _Sorry about that._ Nicolo' apologizes and Sébastien waves him off. 

Most of the time, Nicolo' makes being The Man In The Water as close to painless as such a cursed state can be. Sébastien won't begrudge him the times when he occasionally slip. It is not as if it is something done on purpose.

 _I assure you,_ Nicolo' continues, mischievous in the way he has to be that makes his eyes turn lighter and his mouth curl up on one side. _I have no interest in joining any dream you might have about your wife._

Sébastien shoves him and when he wakes it is with laughter in his mouth and a lighter spirit than he's had in a while.

~

The Moor will find Sébastien where Nicolo' is guiding him, and will take Sébastien back to see his family and then they will go and they will find Nicolo' di Genoa's resting place and exhume him back to a new, glorious life.

It is as certain as the rising of the sun. It is something they know it deep into the marrow of their bones. It just is, as certain as the fact that Sébastien breathes air and Nicolo''s drowning will soon come to an end.

Yusuf will find them.


	3. Chapter 3

His name is Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, called al-Tayyib. The name does not change, or simplify, or grow for the taste of modern tongues, for their ease of pronunciation. He is not Joseph, nor Guiseppe, nor Joe, even three hundred years later. Yusuf is the name his love last knew, and it is the name he will hold until he can hear his voice say it again. Nothing has mattered since that voice said it last. 

Worse still, he cannot remember the cadence, the melody, the sound anymore. A punishment for his failings for his inability to find him to rescue him from the torture from his endless suffering-

Regardless. 

His name is Yusuf.

And he has spent the last three hundred years trying to find and save his Nicolo. His pack is full of journals, each one stuffed overflowing with ships’ manifests, old maps, old routes. anything he could use to try and find the ship that disappeared, the ship that took everything that mattered away from him, that left his world colorless and dark.

He travels the coast of no-longer-Spain, or perhaps Spain-again, he does not pay much attention to that, seeking him out. Asking questions, asking for stories and information and legends. 

His presence earns wary expressions. It is the weight of the three centuries before him on his shoulders. Or the color of his skin. Or perhaps the two swords he carries on his back. One Italian longsword, slung over his right shoulder, impossible to be unsheathed in such a position. One saber from the Maghreb over his left, in easy access should he ever need it. 

It is not often that he needs it.

~

In two hundred years, Yusuf will see one Copley’s wall of research, and think to himself that it looks familiar, like all of his journals if he’d ever spread them out, page by page. Except scattered through _his_ work are countless drawings of a face, parts of a face, the shape of his nose, the quirk of his lips when he smiled, and sometimes the sketches are frantic. Crossed out. 

He’s forgetting.

Forgetting the only face that matters to him, and every time his hand stalls, his fingers tremble, over the penciled sketch of his face, of his short hair, of the curve of his nose, it is another stab to the open wound in his chest that hasn’t closed in centuries. 

It takes everything he has not to break his pencils, his charcoals, to throw his journals. He cannot. They are his only key, his only guide to finding his love again. He will not stop.

Yusuf was nothing, if not relentless.

It was his legacy on the battlefield. It will be his legacy off of it. 

He will find Nicolo or he will die permanently. 

There is no other option.

~

Yusuf is the singular expert on shipwrecks in this half of the continent. He has spent more time among them than he does on land, and even after the invention of the diving bell he goes without it. 

He has a ship, a small thing that takes but two to crew, Andromache and Qyunh, and they always sail out before dawn, before the sun has graced the world with its presence. As far as Yusuf is concerned, the sun has not shown its face in three hundred years. 

His maps lay spread out across the table in the quarters, pinned down, marks all along and around the coasts, shipwrecks they’ve already found. The ones he’s spent entire days in, scouring, looking for bubbles, for movement, for any evidence at all. 

He has found four hundred and sixty two such wrecks. None of them have been the right one.

They have long since stopped following the trade routes of old. Now, Yusuf looks in the spaces between. Each time, he wraps the thick rope around his waist and dives overboard, sometimes holding a cannonball, sometimes swimming, until he reaches the bottom. He usually drowns at least once, doing so. And then countless more times as he searches, in the dark, in the deep. Feeling by hand and kicking through sand until his eyes adjust and even then it is just shapes against the darkness. In the same way one thinks they see their hand when held up in front of their face in pitch darkness, so he sees ships. He never knows if they are really there until he reaches them. 

It is in the quiet deep, as he drowns and drowns and drowns, that he listens for his love. For the sound of movement, of life, of death.

When he is gone for hours, and the sun has set again - not that he can ever tell - he’ll wake up from death to feel himself being dragged away. Pulled back to the surface, drowning along the way, until he’s wrenched back into the open air and onto the wooden deck. 

It is Andromache who decides when he’s been down long enough. 

And then they move on to the next search.

~

They are out at sea, when they dream again. Of a man, his neck snapping in the freezing wastes, and to a one the three of them wake up gasping and shuddering. 

And Yusuf knows but one thing.

Whoever this man is, he will be dreaming of them. Of _Nicolo_.

They must find him. 

Because Nicolo will be dreaming of him too. And if Yusuf can give him anything, even but a glance of himself to know they are still looking, still hunting, will _never stop_ , then he must. Even if it means a break from the search for a time.

The frozen wastes mean nothing to him, but the winter is not so biting here, so they must go further north. 

The man freezes nightly, barefoot and in rags, and it gives them nothing to go on. For days, for weeks, they do not know where he is. Where he goes. 

But Yusuf docks his ship and leaves it behind and wanders further inland than he has in centuries. He does not know where the borders between nations are. They do not matter. 

And then.

And then the man walks a path Yusuf knows.

~

Every passing decade brings with it the knowledge that he is approaching a time where Nicolo has been ripped from him for longer than he ever had him. It is a thorn that buries into his heart and drowns him every time it makes itself known. 

And then he starts to dream of the path the man walks. He’s French, they gather. Which means he has less than _no_ reason to walk the road to Constantinople. He sleeps beneath landmarks that Yusuf knows. That Yusuf has spent countless nights beneath with-

The Frenchman finds a house. To him, it means nothing but shelter and warmth. 

It shatters Yusuf’s heart. 

It was his home. It was _their_ home. Nicolo built it for him. They spent countless days and nights together there and if he were to return now he would suffocate under the wood his heart so lovingly built. 

And this-

This means that Nicolo is guiding the Frenchman. 

That thought is a curse as much as it is blessed. Because it means that Nicolo still lives. And dies. And dies and dies and dies. And he has still not found him. 

But the Frenchman is a looking glass into Nicolo. Into his mind and his eyes and _perhaps_ knowledge that will guide him to him. 

“ _I know where he is_ ,” he speaks, in ragged Arabic. 

They buy horses and ride straight for the heartland of those woods. 

~

It occurs to Yusuf, perhaps a little late, as he’s galloping up the old overgrown road to the house, that the man is French.

He does not speak French.

He should have, perhaps, learned, but it was never of any importance he didn’t _need_ it, and as he’s dismounting, as his horse canters and trots to a stop, and he sets a hand on the old, weathered wood, trying not to think about the last time their hands touched it, it is that thought alone that wracks through his head. He throws the door open, chest heaving for air as if he’s drowning, desperately seeking out the man, the almost-stranger, the only one who can help him now.

His gaze meets the Frenchman’s, across the living room. 

Yusuf’s mouth opens, and all that comes out is a desperate, broken, “ _Nicolo?_ ”

~

There is a moment of stunned silence as the Frenchman, freshly shaved and wearing a set of Yusuf's old clothes, with one of Nicolo''s favourite pelts thrown over his shoulders, stares at him, mouth hanging slightly open, spoonful of stew halfway through his mouth, the fire merrily crackling on the side of the room, a wall of warmth Yusuf just ran into.

He takes all of Yusuf in with a quick glance and recognition sparks into his eyes, something like relief mixed with a bone deep _certainty._

"Yusuf." The Frenchman says, certain despite his surprise and almost crowing with victory.His own accent is painfully heavy but it is mixed with Nicolo's own Genoese one, the voice all wrong but the cadence almost perfectly right, quickly sliding from part to part as he launches himself into the rest of the name, connecting all the syllables of it together in a musical string that comes out of his mouth with an ease that the Frenchman himself seems almost shocked by.

"Yusuf ibn Ibrahim ibn Muhammad ibn al-Kaysani, _called_ al-Tayyib!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art by the incredibly talented and always lovely [Anna Rodman!](https://arodmanillustration.com/)
> 
> If you wanna come yell at us to write more, come hang out with us in the old guard [discord server!](https://discord.gg/kDJpjxx)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yusuf meets the Frenchman. Sebastien meets the Scout.
> 
> It does not go smoothly.

The Frenchman knows his name. He _knows his name_. 

Yusuf stares at him in shock, in- it’s not horror, not quite, but. His lip trembles. 

“ _You’ve seen Nicolo_ ,” he says, in Arabic. It’s the only language his mind can grasp at the moment. He said his name, he said it the way his love used to murmur it in his ear, the cadence, the rhythm, the _music_ of it. How could he have ever forgotten?

It’s not right, not quite right, the voice and the accent all wrong and mangling it, but at the core of it is _Nicolo_ and what else could possibly matter?

He does not notice Andromache and Quynh at his back, in the open doorway. Notices that the Frenchman’s eyes do not stray to them, fixated on him. 

His heart swells and it aches and he needs to know everything this man has seen in his dreams because he cannot stand a minute longer away from Nicolo.

The man's face scrunches up, almost more taken aback than he is confused by Yusuf's words, though confusion is there too. He mutters something fast and jumbled and making _no sense at all_ to himself and then shakes his head.

" _Zeneize?"_ He asks, almost hopefully. His grammar is shaky and his accent is at points so strong that it almost deforms the words, but he manages to gargle out a " _Nicolo' me l'ha insegnòu 'n pö._ " (Nicolo' taught me a little)

He looks at Yusuf again, narrowing his eyes as he seems to chew something over at the same time as he quickly downs the contents of his spoon.

 _"Tîe t'ee tròppo spìppo._ " (You are too thin) He finally declares with an absolute certainty as to that particular phrase that suggests that he's heard it himself plenty of times, the tone lacking, missing what would have been fondness in Nicolo's mouth, his eyes holding reproach rather than worried softness, his affirmation sounding like a judgement rather than a warm and gentle rebuke, no promise of food to come lurking in the eyes and the curling of the man's mouth despite the cadence being pitch perfect to the one Yusuf's ears have been denied for so long.

Yusuf flinches at the words. Words he understands, words that feel like _home_ and don’t sound like it at all, not with the way his gaze carries judgment and upset. 

But- all of that ceases to matter as the rest of his thoughts catch up to him. 

_Nicolo taught him._

Nicolo is able to communicate clearly enough, more than the sort of hurried snapshots they could get, to _teach_ this man. And if he could do that, then-

Then there is hope yet. 

“ _Nicolo can tell me so himself, when I see him again._ ” He has not spoken this language in. In centuries. Even before he lost him. It is halting, the words slow to come. But he can understand the man. That’s all he needs to get as much information as he can. To bring him closer. 

Surely Nicolo knew something more than the myths and scraps Yusuf had found thus far. 

_“Inside."_ Andy's voice carries the tone of an order, her body pushing forward, forcing Yusuf to move or be moved as she and Quynh edge him past the door and into the warmth, closer to the man that holds the key to Nicolo's own knowledge.

" _He will._ " The man mutters in his distorted zeneize, with absolute certainty, shaking his head as he looks down at his plate, almost stabbing the spoon into it as he goes back for more of the stew it contains, a frown on his face as he shoots a quick look up at Yusuf, clearly wondering something judgemental-looking about him. " _He gets weird about you. Less a saint and martyr, more a madman."_

A saint, a martyr? His grasp of the language has not deteriorated so far that he is misunderstanding things. 

_“Saint_?” He repeats, striding closer. As if he might be speaking to Nicolo at the moment - not possible, he isn’t sleeping - and he could get an answer from him that way. 

Speaking to him- what he wouldn’t give for that. If killing this Frenchman was what it took for Yusuf to be able to dream of his love, he would do it without hesitation. 

Fortunately for the Frenchman, that is not how it works. 

He wonders what Nicolo sees. _When_ he sees. Death is not sleep, so how does he sleep enough to dream? Is he dreaming now? Does he see them?

 _"Nicolo' di Genoa_." The Frenchman nods, keeping half a careful eye on Yusuf and half on Andy and Quynh as they, from the sound of it, secure the door and start pulling off their snow-covered cloaks, talking quietly to each other in one of the many languages they share.

Then, as he brings up the spoon again: " _The Man In The Water, for he does not like to be called a saint or a martyr, even though he_ is _one_ ." There is a faith, a _Faith_ burning into the man, alighting his words, a _certainty_ that runs too deep for another's denial to overcome it, an absolute trust into the truth of one's assessment of the situation and even a dare, aimed at Yusuf, to deny what the Frenchman is claiming.

" _He holds his breath for longer than any mortal would be able to before dying and returning. Endlessly. Waiting and_ \--" He stops to push the stew in his mouth, swallowing and barely making the words in his mouth work around the food. "-- _scratching at the metal, trying to get out._ "

He swallows his mouthful and looks up, wary eyes taking in Yusuf again, taking their measure of him a second time. " _He told me about you. He was the one who said you would come for me._ "

He keeps his gaze on Yusuf, something heavy with expectation and a demand of action in his eyes as he stares at him, almost accusingly. " _He also said you will come for him. He is waiting for you, has been clawing at metal since the beginning, when the ship sank and delivered him unto the darkness of his Trial."_

Clawing. He claws at the metal, the iron that took him from Yusuf. Clawing in darkness and desperation and fighting for consciousness and he has been that way in the deep for three _hundred years_. 

Yusuf’s knees want to bow. To give out beneath him. 

They do not, out of sheer force of will. Out of his need to free Nicolo first. Then- then he can fall apart.

“ _Speak. Everything you know of where he is. The color of the light the taste of the water the silhouettes of the fish that surround him,_ **_speak._ **”

Yusuf has no patience for his meal or his rest. 

Not a moment longer.

The Frenchman studies him shrewdly, foolishly unafraid of Yusuf's fraying everything, and then leans back in his seat, almost carelessly abandoning his spoon in the bowl, giving a nod as if satisfied of what he's seen.

As if he had been waiting for _Yusuf_ to prove himself to him and might have tried to keep what information he has from Yusuf, should he had found him lacking, should he have decided based on who knows what irrelevant standards he had that the information was to be withheld.

" _The water he is in has no light to it, the depth too profound for the sun to reach them_ ." He says, _finally,_ giving the kind of infuriatingly gallic shrug at Yusuf's question about the light that is as dismissive as it is galling. " _There was a storm that blew them off their original course towards the open ocean. He knows for they went down in the hold to blame him for it and he remembers the ship was first dashed against something hard enough to damage the hull but not so much as to ensure a quick shipwreck. They had time to try and change their course away from that danger before the strength of the waves tore that damage open and caused the ship to sink."_

Toward the open ocean. Dark, and deep, and not close to where Yusuf’s main searches have taken him. Because what would wreck a ship that wasn’t along the coast? 

He wants to throw something.

And then the Frenchman shrugs, as if it _doesn’t matter_ , and Yusuf has stalked across the room before he can blink or even think about it. He lets him finish speaking, drinking in all the information like he is parched, and then he grabs the man by the throat, hauling him up from the table and shoving him into the wall. 

“ _You still breathe only because you can tell me where Nicolo is. Were it not for that, I’d have killed you already_ ,” he snarls, his fingers squeezing just under his jaw. A threat, without cutting off his supply of air. Just in case he has any words worth speaking.

The man is wearing Nicolo’s clothes. Is in their home. And- he looks down and sees a bottle by the table that makes him almost snap the man’s neck on instinct. He is _drinking the grappa Nicolo made for them_. 

“ _Tell. Me. Everything.”_

Neither Quynh nor Andromache try to stop him or intervene, not even when the Frenchman's eyes flicker to them, something bitter and, for whatever reason, betrayed settling into his gaze at their lack of intervention on his behalf." _You are nothing like he remembers you --"_

Yusuf doesn’t even process the words before the man is dead at his hands. He drops the body, swiping up the half-empty bottle of grappa, and he can’t even bring himself to take a drink.

His hands shake. And then he carefully corks the bottle once more, walking slowly across the room to return it to its place. 

Very well. If the man doesn’t want to help, he’ll make him. They were not inhumanly strong. Ropes would work just fine.

Or chains.

The cost doesn’t matter. Nothing does, until he finds Nicolo.

"I will tie him up and load him on my horse." Andromache says, matter of fact, informing Yusuf of what the plan is the same way she will remind him that he has to rest when she drags him out of the sea and away from his search. "He can tell us all that he knows on the way back to the coast. Pack clothes for Nicolo', he will need them."

"I will refill our provisions, with your permission." Quynh adds, waiting for Yusuf's agreement rather than just heading for the still-open cellar trapdoor.

"Go ahead. Take any food that is left," Yusuf says softly. He knows she understands. The food is meaningless. The alcohol is different. Not a necessity. One of very few things he has left that Nicolo made with his own hands for them both to enjoy. To consume, as they always did with his meals. The taste and feeling of home. He considers bringing the already opened bottle. It won't last, here, anyway. Takes it, slipping it into his bag.

Andromache wastes no time, hoisting the Frenchman up on her shoulder like a malodorant sack of grain as Quynh nods her agreement to Yusuf.

"Eat something." She suggests, giving a look to the pot of stew as she makes her way to the cellar. She does not add any platitudes or further encouragement. Yusuf knows best of all of them to keep himself fed so he will have the energy to go on for longer, reach further, sooner.

Yusuf packs some of Nicolo’s clothes, folding them with care, a gentle touch. Wrapping them around the bottle in his pack, and he will save it for when they find him.

Then he takes a bowl and sits down to eat. The stew is still warm, though only just, and it tastes nothing like it should. Not here. It was not home without him. Without the smell of warmth and comfort and delicious food curling around him like an embrace. It is just cold, and empty. He finishes the bowl and leaves two more, should Andromache and Quynh want to eat, and cleans up the rest of the table.

Quynh takes advantage of the offer,once she has taken out two duffle bags worthy of food to Andromache and the horses, thanking him with a smile, reaching out to squeeze his shoulder in support.

"Soon." She says, looking more hopeful than any of them has in who even knows how long.

The hope is something he hasn't seen in either of them since the first century, when they tried to keep his hopes alive. After the first hundred wrecks, they stopped. Knew it would sound hollow. But now- this? This is more than he has known for certain in centuries.

"Soon," he agrees, his voice coming out ragged. He has to believe that. And he will stop at nothing to find him. Even if that means he has to go through the Frenchman to do it.

Cold wind gusts in when the door opens, Andromache stepping back inside with the Frenchman in tow, looking less willing to step on Yusuf's last nerve any further but not chagrined either. More somber.

"Nicolò has found a way to communicate clearly through the dreams." She informs Yusuf and Quynh, straight to the point and without wasting any precious time. "He has been talking to Sèbastien for the last month, since he first died."

A way to communicate. A way to communicate with his love and it is _wasted_ on this shit excuse of a man.

The thought occurs to him, a small, dark thorn of it, that makes him wonder if the Frenchman's barb rang true. That he is no longer the man Nicolo loved. Loves.

"Then he will tell us what he knows." It is not spoken to him. He says it to Andromache. Can't bear to look at the man who has been given a gift he aches so deeply for.

"He will." Andromache agrees, confirmation that cooperation has been secured. She turns to the man and addresses him in the same language he used to mutter to himself when Yusuf first came in.

The Frenchman gives a heavy nod. " _Nicolò saw me through the winter to safety, taught me how to survive. I was always going to help him_." He says, looking at the room at large rather than at Yusuf directly, gnawing his way through Nicolò's language.

" _That you will help is a given._ " Yusuf answers, his tone as biting as the frost that took the man's life so many times. " _You merely spare yourself further pain by cooperating._ "

He has already cleaned up any trace of the man's presence here. closed up the cellar and put away everything he'd rifled through. Yusuf's hands find- fine one of his journals, from before. From a time where he had known happiness. He picks it up, but doesn't open it. Slips it into his bag. Whether or not he can bear to look through it is a different question, one for later.

The Frenchman says nothing but there is a flash of resentment in his eyes. He stows it away, without acting on it and inclines his head to Quynh when she says something brief and to the point, possibly a thanks probably encouragement, perhaps both. It seems to soften the man slightly, either way.

 _"He is in an area with little currents._ " He reports. " _Big fishes he thought might be attracted by blood come by, though he does not know how often, and they were not attracted by the blood in the water or the bodies after the shipwreck. They feed through their open mouths somehow, even if nothing goes in."_

As soon as the man opens his mouth, Yusuf has his latest notebook in hand, scribbling notes as fast as they are uttered. " _How big._ " The anger, the threat, is put away for the moment. This is more important. Whales? Sharks? Which does he mean? Or does this man's standard for 'big' end at tuna?

 _"It is hard to be sure._ " The Frenchman admits, with a frown and a shudder. " _They look spat out of hell. I would have thought them water demons if not for Nicolò's insistence on their being fish._ " He clearly makes an effort to recall, squeezing his eyes shut. " _Grey beasts with huge mouths that are white on the inside and look spacious enough to fit a whole bed in and thin bodies ending in short tails._ "

He blinks, as if startled and then nods to himself. _"Nicolò said it was important to say. They do not have big tails."_

" _Do they have teeth, that look like hairbrushes, bristles all along the rims of their mouths?_ " Sharks. It sounds like sharks, not whales. A species that isn't so widespread, that eats plant instead of meat, and that- that narrows it down quite a lot more than 'open sea' ever did.

 _"No._ " The Frenchman says, firmly shaking his heads. _"They seem to have ribcages of bones in their mouths_."

"What is he describing?" Quynh asks, standing by Andromache as they work on emptying the bowls Yusuf set out for them. "Is it anything we have seen?"

"Basking sharks," Yusuf answers, sketching out a quick drawing and holding it up to the Frenchman. " _This, yes?_ " A sketch of the open mouth. Of the strange headshape, and the long tail.

 _"Yes._ " He confirms, looking as revolted as he is fascinated by the drawing. _"Once alone, the next time with small ones. They do not stay long."_

"That would be south, then." Andromache points out, sounding as if she is frowning in thought."More to the south then we had thought. We only saw them rarely." Quynh confirms, immediately. "Down, almost to the corner of the land, in Algarve."

Yusuf nods, pulling out the map of the southern area. They had only found a few wrecks there, and most close to shore. If they had been swept out to sea....he studies the area. Looks at the places he'd marked the shark sightings. Draws a circle. " _Somewhere here. Let's go."_

 _"The water is salty, Nicolò said."_ The Frenchman adds as Andromache and Quyn clear the table. _"Too salty for any sweet water to be nearby. I will tell him, we are coming, he will see that we are on the way."_

Another time, Yusuf might have been curious to know what Andromache said to change his demeanor. He does not care. But he is grateful to her for doing so. He narrows down the area, further away from the land. " _Yes. Tell him._ " He needs Nicolo to know. That they are coming. That _he_ is coming.

There is a moment of quiet, before the Frenchman speaks again.

 _"He has never doubted you but he will be delighted to see you again."_ He says, voice more quiet, sad in a way that is not envious but aching with empathy. " _You are the cornerstone of his Faith."_

Yusuf meets his gaze. He does not deserve that faith. He has failed for too long to have earned that unwavering devotion. But if it has helped Nicolo, then he will not protest. How could he?

" _He sees through your eyes, does he not? However often he sleeps_?" Is Nicolo watching now? Does he see him like this, desperation clawing through his chest, aching through his bones? He hopes not, for his love's sake.

 _"We are not sure_ ." The Frenchman admits, looking away from Yusuf and towards Quynh and Andromache. " _It is hard to measure in dreams but I think he might stay alive for about half an hour at a time, though it seems irrational to believe, and asleep for maybe half of that if he can. He is convinced, said he measured it in prayers, if it makes sense to you? His absences are never longer than what feel like a handful of seconds, so he comes back quick, everytime."_

He looks wretched at the thought, fingers twitching as if wishing to be holding something, his ruddy complexion suggesting maybe a glass.

_"He is... peaceful enough, I do not know how, as long as we do not talk about you. He changes then. Worries, endlessly. Paces in the dreams."_

That hurts. That thinking of him is what brings Nicolo pain. That he is able to hold on until he remembers of him.

" _And you see him when you sleep. That is when he talks to you. Teaches you language?_ " And who knew what else.

Yusuf is viciously, deeply envious. Of this bond he seems to have with him. What he would not give to be able to hear Nicolo in his dreams. In his thoughts.

He gathers up his bags. This conversation can continue on horseback. They do not have time to waste.

 _"I thought we were speaking mine but he said he would not know it, that in dreams he could teach me without teaching, by willing it to be as dreams do not follow logic?_ " The Frenchman looks baffled, the philosophical musings tripping him, the words he uses for them shifting to the Greek that Yusuf himself taught to Nicolò, given away by the cadence as the accent is a miserably mangled mess.

The words are a farce of what Yusuf has longed for. So close and yet such a sharp reminder of everything he has lost. “ _I will not attempt to explain it. It is yet another mystery._ ” and the knowing of the why matters little, because that knowing will not bring him closer.

It is enough that he has learned. _“Let’s go._ ”

The Frenchman nods, following him outside. Andromache takes over, talking to the man in his own language as she shows him how to mount the gelding they acquired for him on the way without letting his rifle get in the way.

Quynh smiles at Yusuf as she mounts her own horse, warm and burning with anticipation.

"One last trip at sea." She says and her smile has the sharp joy of a victory close at end secured between her teeth.

Yusuf does not smile in turn, can't manage it, but he nods. Climbs upon his horse and turns them back for where they'd last docked, three countries and the whole continent away.

 _Just a little longer_ , he thinks, and desperately hopes it to be true.

\----

The Frenchman jerks awake three times in quick succession, the first time Andy and Quynh decide they have to stop for sleep.

He gasps awake the first time but also falls asleep before any of them can do anything more than startle awake, only to gasp himself awake again a few seconds later and then, after falling asleep just as quickly again, a third and final time, coming up for air and pressing his had to his neck, wincing as he presses it down on his skin.

Yusuf is awake instantly the first time, and part of him fears that something is wrong with Nicolo. That he is suffering - worse than he already was- or. He does not know. But the Frenchman says nothing, and he scowls at him as he goes back to sleep. 

Yusuf is sitting, needing a moment to come down from the shock if he's going to sleep again, when the Frenchman wakes again. And then again. And this time he's not going to let him sleep without explaining again, but he does that. 

" _He does not like what I said to you._ " He informs Yusuf brusquely, voice slightly hoarse, a grimace on his face as he rolls his head, as if checking the range of motion on his neck. " _At all._ "

" _What_?" He thought Nicolo was in pain, to wake the man so.

" _What I said._ " The Frenchman repeats, eyeing Yusuf warily, as if expecting an attack. " _About you being different from his memories. He is furious at me._ " He winces as he says it, as if flinching away from an expected blow, shoulders dropping a little when it doesn't arrive, though it's not completely clear whether in dismay or relief. Perhaps both.

Quynh is on guard, up in one of the trees around them, where she has a good view of their surroundings and plenty of space to pick her targets, but Andromache is down there with them and she watches them talk keenly. She never learned Nicolo's language but she doesn't need to know it, not with the way she's keeping her eyes on Yusuf, taking her cues from him.

Yusuf's muscles bunch, it takes everything he has to not lunge across the space and throw him into the dirt and demand he tell him what happened. What Nicolo said. That Nicolo can _speak_ with him- it still sends a fury through his core. 

His jaw tenses, and he stays seated only because he has his sword in his lap. " _Is that so_." He doesn't necessarily believe this man. He could say anything he wanted, to appease them. The only thing he can trust is that his information on Nicolo's whereabouts is as accurate as he can make it.

" _He snapped my neck twice and then cut my head off when I refused to back off._ " The Frenchman snaps, his tone sour, his eyes resentful as he looks at Yusuf. " _He is_ worried _that you will take my words to heart. He wants to cup your face in his hands and bring your foreheads together as he reassures you and that he can't made him scream himself into an earlier death than it would have otherwise been._ "

He does not sound disgusted when he says so but he does sound bitter, looking at Yusuf accusatory, offended by the disparity in treatment, aggrieved to be attacked so.

Yusuf snorts, an almost derisive thing. A part of him thinks, _good_ , because it meant his and Nicolo's instincts were still the same. And then recants that, at the thought that Nicolo is hurting, is dying faster, because of him. His own gaze is dark, heavy, unimpressed by the bitterness in the Frenchman's eyes. 

It digs at him, still. He says he refused to back off, three times. So certain, he is, that Yusuf does not, what. Deserve him? Deserve Nicolo? " _It sounds as if you do not want to sleep_ ," he says, his voice unyielding. If Quynh did not need to sleep after being on watch, he'd suggest they keep going.

" _I am just giving him the time to collect himself, so that we can talk._ " The Frenchman counters with a shake of his head, clearly feeling irritated by Yusuf's remark, wrapping himself better in Nicolo''s fur, settling himself back down. " _I want to tell him we are coming myself. I gave him my word, that we would come for him._ "

Yusuf wants to rip that fur off of him. Restrains himself, just barely. This man thinks that he is part of this. That he is to this rescue anything more than the informants Yusuf has paid throughout the centuries. He just snorts, digging into his pack to eat something. As soon as he eats, he'll take next watch from Quynh.

\----

Quynh is the one who takes over talking to the Frenchman, leaving Andromache free to keep pace with Yusuf.

"She wants to know why his dreams are different from what ours had been." Andromache informs Yusuf, tersely. She has not been pleased with the man so far, keeping an eye on him and his interactions with Yusuf. "She thinks he might tell her why he acts like he does around you, why he looks like a follower talking about a myth when he speaks Nicolo''s name."

Yusuf had assumed that she was just keeping the Frenchman out of his sword's reach. "He acts as if he has any _claim_ to him," Yusuf spits. It's only when he puts words to it that he realizes that is what it was.

"Is that how he talks of him?" Andromache asks, brows furrowing, her tone sliding in a softer one, a sharper edge underneath it. She does not look over her shoulder, to where Quynh is engaging the Frenchman into conversation, but he can see the way her eyes stray to the side for a moment, which is as good as a tell. "As if Nicolo' is his?"

"He said that ' _I am not the man he remembers._ " The derision in his tone hides how the words still rattle around in his chest. "Accused me, as if he had something more."

Andromache's eyes narrow slightly, a hiss going through her lips at his repeat of the accusation.

"His words mean nothing. He does not know you or Nicolo' or what you have." She says, firmly, straight to the point, discounting the Frenchman's opinion immediately, without hesitation. "Why are you letting them get to you?"

Yusuf huffs, an exhale as his hands tighten on the reins of his horse. "He has communicated enough with Nicolo to be able to speak to me. I do not know what he has been shown."

"Whatever he has seen, he does not know you and he does not know what you have gone through and he is also an idiot if he says that to you and means it as an accusation." Andromache's voice is brusque but there is genuine concern for Yusuf in her eyes and she switches to his own first language rather than the Portuguese they had been speaking into, out of habit. "He does not know Nicolo' either, if he thinks anything Nicolo' has shared would give him the right to judge you and survive the consequences."

Yusuf exhales slow, almost carefully. Controlled. "Yes. I know you are correct." And he will be more certain of it when he finds Nicolo again. But until he does. Until he does, he will be unable to avoid it. It does not matter. It will not change anything. He is just as driven to find Nicolo and free him, no matter what that means for after.

Andromache gives him an unimpressed look and then shrugs.

"Nicolo will show to you that you are wrong." She says, matter of fact, not believing him at all, not even for a moment. "It will make you all stupid-faced and happy again. It will be unbearable."

He laughs, then. It does not sound quite right, more a sound of surprise, but it is still laughter. "And yet, you will bear it."

"For all the centuries to come." Andromache agrees, heaving a deep sigh as she nods gravely, humour lighting her eyes up as they spur their horses forward, each stride closing the distance between them and Nicolo'.

\----

"He initially dreamed like we did of him, of each other, but he says Nicolo' reached out to him, figured out how to make the fragments into dreams where they could look around and talk." Quynh recounts a few nights later, while the Frenchman sleeps like a rock in his borrowed pelt, sharing the information in the language of her people rather than any European one. 

She sits by Andromache, their shoulders pressed together, their legs stretched out towards the fire, a flask of kumis passed back and forth between them to be sipped at. 

"They could still see our fragments as they were, just weaved into the dream one way or another. They can feel each other's feelings and Nicolo' scares and awes him both." She shakes her head and frowns in disapproval as she adds. "He thinks of him as a christian martyr, even with Nicolo' telling him he shouldn't. Nicolo' does not like it but he is convinced."

"Christians." Andromache huffs, rolling her eyes and shaking her head. "So hung up on their own beliefs and always so ready to force them on others." She turns her eyes on Yusuf, meaningfully. She does not need to speak for her words to be heard just as clearly.

_See? He does not truly know him. He just sees what he wants to see._

Yusuf tears off a strip of his dried meat, perhaps viciously. Perhaps in vindication. “Even against their will,” he agrees, and that part perhaps sticks harder than the rest. That the Frenchman’s presence in Nicolo’s dreams isn’t necessarily a _wanted_ one.

"They cannot stop the dreams from happening." Quynh offers. "But Sebastien has been focusing on the good things, things that he thinks Nicolo' might appreciate seeing."

There is more, she has talked with the Frenchman more than enough to know a lot more than that, but she doesn't seem interested to share into her insights or what he told her about himself.

"He says the dreams have changed since we arrived. Nicolo' keeps focusing on you, Yusuf, to the exclusion of anything else. He is worried about your weight and the sleep you are not getting." She comments instead, a fond smile curling her lips up. "From something Sebastien muttered, he might appreciate your hair."

Andy huffs a laughter at the last comment, giving Yusuf another strong look as she sips from the flask. "Disgusting, the both of you." She mutters, with a shake of her head.

He exhales, a tired smile, as he continues to eat. “He can tell me so himself,” he says, though the warmth almost reaches his eyes.

"Oh he _will_." Andromache comments, dryly and Quynh cracks up, curling forward a little as she laughs, the atmosphere between all of them lighter than it has been since the unthinkable happened.

There is more hope then there has been in more than a century and while it is not the breaking of dawn that it will be to finally find and free Nicolo', it is a fresh breeze blowing away some of the clouds that had perpetually filled their moods who knows how long ago.

“If Nicolo sleeps as much as he can, does he see through his,” he says it with a jut of his chin toward the man, “eyes all day?” 

"Yes." Quynhs confirms, when she is done laughing, leaning more against Andromache and giggling slightly still. "He still takes breaks to work onto breaking free but he also spends as much time sleeping as he can, so that he can follow along with us."

Yusuf smiles at their mirth. At the warmth they share, pressed to each other. He is lucky they have endured and stayed by him throughout all of this. “Not much longer. He does not need to fight too much more.” It is a promise. A soft thing.

"Not much longer." Quynh echoes, smiling for him brilliantly. "Then you will both be able to get a good night sleep, together."

“Yes. It is not the same, with just his sword,” he answers, chasing the words with a drink. Warm. He feels hope again. Less like he is throwing himself off a cliff over and over and more like he is climbing a mountain. He can see the end.

They crack up again, Quynh dissolving into giggles as Andromache saves the flask from being overturned, the mirth coming from the general good humour.

They are not all there, not yet, but soon they will be.

Soon, it will be dawn again.

\----

They have just passed from the Baixo Alentejo region into Algarve when the Frenchman wakes up with a gasp as loud as a shout.

It is a sound different from that of the gasps he gave when Nicolo' was killing him, a heavy intake of breath as if suddenly feeling choked, looking wild eyed as he looks around, clearly trying to get his bearings and only sagging when he finds Quyn, who has pushed herself up, sword at the ready.

Next to her Andromache is already scanning their surroundings for an attack that is not happening, but the Frenchman ignores her to babble in his language about whatever it is that he has seen.

"Yusuf!" Quynh calls, a couple of phrases in, urgency in her voice as she sheats her sword and reaches for the Frenchman, grabbing his hand and squeezing it in her own, triumph clear into her features.

Yusuf was on watch, and he comes running back as soon as he hears the shout, the commotion, worried someone had snuck past him. Sword in hand, freezing by the camp as they speak. As Quynh holds onto him. As she looks _excited_. 

"What? what is it?"

"There is a shipwreck happening almost on top of Nicolo's head, close enough to see details." She reports, face alight with victory, the words spilling out quickly, one chasing the other as she hastens to translate what the Frenchman is babbling about, squeezing his hand to encourage him to keep going. "Luxury items, made of mother of pearl and tortoise shell and more such materials. The ship looks to have been broken by a storm, Nicolo said. He showed the damage to Sebastien, how most of it was coming down in big pieces. Nothing on top of the prison he's in but there's plenty around him."

Yusuf's heart pounds so loud he almost can't make out the words. The thing slamming into his chest hard enough to break a rib or three. "Then we must go. Now. While we can still find the route the ship was meant to take," he says, watching her, watching him, waiting to see if he has more information to give.

The Frenchman swallows, squeezing Quynh's hand again and then breathes deeply in and then slowly out, collecting himself.

" _It was a_ caravelle _I am sure._ " he says, in Nicolo''s own language, the ship term a French one that Quynh immediately translates for Yusuf into the portuguese _caravela_ for him.

"He's from Marseille, he knows his ships." She adds, helping the Frenchman pack quickly, while Andromache takes care of their own part of the camp, all of them springing into action.

Yusuf breathes in. Out. And then springs up, grabbing his- _their_ \- swords, slinging his pack on and going for their horses. They are almost at the port, they might make it today if they push it. 

" _That is- it should be enough information._ " It is hope, thrumming in his chest, so hard he might burst. He doesn't say anything else, a lump caught in his throat, and he unties their horses, loading his own up and climbing on, holding the reins to theirs until they're ready.

" _If it was a storm big enough to sink a_ caravelle _, they might have heard it all the way to the coast_." The Frenchman agrees, scrambling to get his pack hoisted up on his back before he gets on the mare Andromache procured for him.

He turns and repeats himself in his language, clearly for Quynh's benefit, given the way she nods at him and beams viciously at Yusuf.

"Let us make the best of this trail." Andromache half-orders and half-states, getting on her own horse and throwing Quynh her share of their belongings without looking, trusting her to grab them as she does, slinging them on her own back.

Yusuf waits for them all to be seated astride their horses, and then gives his own a swift kick and takes off. No patience for anything anymore, anything beyond getting to Nicolo as fast as he could. It is the strongest lead he's had in three hundred years. 

"We will get to my ship, and I will go gather information while you get ready to cast off," he tells Andromache as they ride.

Andromache nods. He is the one who will blend in the most, what with Algarve having been under Moor control for so long that the population still looks more like him than any of the others.

"Remember, they do not know you here as they do elsewhere." She says, simply, knowing how his focus can turn into a single blade pointed at a single enemy, reducing his ability to notice things that might blindside him.

A failure on his part. They hadn't spent near enough time there, and they should have. 

"I know," he says. It does not matter. 

His life as a merchant, before he met Nicolo and after, now, for all of them, will guide him through all that he needs. His life as a warrior will carry the rest, should he need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> x) comments feed us to write more, faster, hehe


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